held close in your fear
by androidilenya
Summary: Caranthir and the long, slow death of Beleriand.


**(Written a few months ago as part of the 30 Days of Headcanon challenge *continues to obnoxiously backpost ridiculous amounts of fic*)**

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His brothers they called Fair and Tall and Mighty, but they called him Dark. And he didn't mind that (much) — it was, after all, an accurate epithet, considering his coloring, his dark hair, his temperment.

They also called him the harshest of the seven, the most easily angered. And that, too, was true — he lost his temper far more often than the diplomatic Maedhros, for example, and he tended to lash out more easily than cold Curufin. But he had never thought of himself as an _angry_ person. He just felt everything more strongly — not just anger, but happiness, and love, and sometimes even fear.

(The last emotion he felt more often than he would have liked, and covered it with quick words and flashing eyes, scornful and haughty and everything a son of Fëanor was supposed to be.)

When he had been a child, before he had learned to laugh to hide the hurt, there had been many times he had hidden from the others, wondering if they would look for him, wondering if they even missed him. Most of the time he would get bored and crawl out from whatever hiding spot he'd found before the others even realized he'd been gone, but sometimes he stayed there for hours, still and silent, listening for their voices calling his name. They were always so annoyed with him, and that made him glad — they had missed him, his bright and laughing older brothers had cared for those brief moments.

And later, when he, too, was an older brother, he tried so hard to be like the others, afraid of his brother's scorn, wishing he could be someone for Curufin to look up to the way he looked up to Maedhros and Maglor and Celegorm.

When Curufin was born, he had leaned over the cradle with eager anticipation, dreaming of the future — here was a little brother he could play with, tell his stories to (he had so many, and no one knew) and he would never make this brother feel alone, or left behind, of unwanted, like he had felt so many times with Maedhros and Maglor so close to being of age and so far away from him, and Celegorm always so annoyed with him, never wanting to do_anything_ with Caranthir.

But the baby's names — Curufinwë Atarinkë — were all too apt, and as Curufin grew more and more like their father, increasing in skill and craft, better in the forge than Caranthir could ever hope to be, closer to Atar than he ever had been — he should have known, and he should have been too old for dreams by now, anyways.

He wondered: if Curufin was Crafty, their father's namesake and pride and joy, and if Maedhros was Tall, the leader and protector and diplomat, and Maglor the mighty singer with a voice like light, and Celegorm was Fair, the hunter already in the favor of a Vala — then what was Caranthir?

_Nothing_, some small part of him whispered as he watched Celegorm and Curufin saddle their horses, a smile on Celegorm's face for this brother as there never was for him, as the brothers rode to hunt together, share laughter and secrets and a love that Caranthir wished he could be a part of. And he wandered the halls of the house alone, listening to the distant ring of Atar's forge, feeling the silence as though it were something physical.

By the time the twins were born, he knew better than to try.

When whispers of conflict gathered, and unrest ruled the streets of the golden city they called home, he was almost glad for it, because it drove the brothers together.

He learned to use a sword, and there was something enjoyable about going through the motions of sparring with someone, striking them without consequence, striking them because it was what you were supposed to do. He was good at it, like he'd been born to it, and he wondered what it would be like to use one for real against others. His brothers assured him that it wouldn't come to that, that spilling elven blood was unthinkable, that this was a_precaution_.

He laughed as he took an oath, feeling the togetherness of the brothers in that moment, united by common cause and love, flying higher on those fire-filled words than he ever had before, and he knew that this was what had to happen, that this was what was meant to be.

Then there was a night of blood and screams, and he saw what it was to have blood stain the bright steel of his sword, and he knew what it was to have the red haze of battle take over, part anger and part exhilaration and part fear.

(Part of him hated it, but he could pretend, and laugh, because he was a son of Fëanor and a son of Fëanor never showed fear.)

He raged at Maglor when his brother refused to rescue Maedhros from the enemy's grasp — and he knew, he knew there were reasons, and that there was the Oath, and that there was nothing else they could have done, but he still lashed out, and wished he was brave enough to do something on his own. For the first time, he almost regretted — everything.

(But there was no room for regret, only anger, and that was right… wasn't it?)

His brother returned and the feud was healed, and Caranthir should have been glad, but he didn't trust those who had crossed the ice — didn't trust anyone except his brothers, and not even them, sometimes.

He had never been a diplomat, and it seemed that every word he said in counsel with the others was fueled by irritation and disdain, and everyone could see it. After Angrod stormed out for the last time, Maedhros gently but firmly told him that Caranthir was welcome to spend the rest of their meetings quietly in a corner. Caranthir responded by relocating to the riverlands and building himself a hall, gathering a few loyal servants and spending the days alone in echoing halls that reminded him of home. Himring had been too cold, anyways, too much stark stone and unadorned walls, like Maedhros was trying to punish himself by living there, and he had always hated it. His halls in Thargelion were nicer, even if he was alone there.

He heard news of war, and disregarded the tidings until it was too late, until the foul spawn of Morgoth were in his lands, ravaging the countryside, burning his hall. He wanted to fight — was mad enough to consider it, even against such overwhelming odds — but his men dragged him away snarling and striking out even against his own followers, eyes dark with rage, reflecting the burning outline of his home as it fell to smoke and ruin.

(And again, he hurt someone in his anger, and there was no room for apology or guilt — there never was.)

He fled to his brother's people, and stayed there, waiting for what would come. There was news — Celegorm and Curufin had taken refuge in Nargothrond, Celegorm and Curufin had gotten their cousin killed, Celegorm and Curufin had been thrown out in disgrace. But more important than that, to all the messengers that brought him news, was the tidings of an Elven princess that had brought Morgoth low and walked free from his black fortress with a Silmaril and her mortal lover.

Caranthir waited, knowing what had to happen next. War, and death, and victory. There had to be victory, because they were the sons of the most powerful Elf to ever live, and the Oath had been right, and they had to triumph. Had to.

The sons came together long enough to be driven apart again in the most shattering defeat they had ever known. Again, Caranthir had to be forced to retreat, because once the battle-rage took over, it was victory or death trying.

In Doriath, there was no one to pull him back, no one to restrain him, and when he saw his little brother cut down by a bright sword in a stranger's hand something in him snapped. It no longer mattered that Curufin had been the one to steal Celegorm's attention, steal his love — what mattered was that his brother was lying in a spreading pool of his own blood, and that his killer was still alive.

He killed his brother's murderer, laughing as he did so, eyes filled with dark fire and bone-dry, because there was no time for tears in this rage-filled world.

And he found his brother dying beside the fallen Prince of Doriath, and held Celegorm as he died. The anger he had harboured his entire life drained from him at the sight of that bloodless face, and when Celegorm whispered an apology, a farewell, the tears came and splashed hot over his blood-streaked cheeks.

There were still others to strike, others to punish for his brother's deaths, and he no longer cared, he no longer wanted to feel this pain and fury and terror, so he fought with abandon and welcomed the cold bite of steel meeting his flesh, welcomed the spill of his own blood.

But a son of Fëanor did not merely die, and so he thrust his sword into the chest of his killer, and they fell together, blood mingling, and he spat out his last breath into the fading eyes of a stranger, and wondered at the fear mirrored there. Too late, the thought came —

_We weren't ever all that different, were we?_


End file.
